


habits

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, throws confetti over shoulder, you need to squint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:58:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a habit,” Oikawa says, nonchalantly bolding the lines of his name on Iwaizumi’s notebook. He’s kneeling on the classroom floor and leaning up against the spiker’s desk, tongue poking out of the very corner of his mouth in absolute concentration.<br/>“An <i>annoying</i> habit,” Iwaizumi scoffs, falling into his seat.<br/>(<i>in which Oikawa is annoying and Iwaizumi's less bothered by it than he lets on</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	habits

“It’s a habit,” Oikawa says, nonchalantly bolding the lines of his name on Iwaizumi’s notebook. He’s kneeling on the classroom floor and leaning up against the spiker’s desk, tongue poking out of the very corner of his mouth in absolute concentration.

“An _annoying_ habit,” Iwaizumi scoffs, falling into his seat. He surveys the messy spill of his schoolbag’s contents and sorts through the layers of spirals and composition notebooks and pens, eying the (sadly) familiar characters printed on each item. The classroom’s lunch-buzz rises higher around them, their classmates occupied with their meals and conversations, and Iwaizumi spins a lead-smudged, cracked pen around his thumb, watching the _Oikawa was here_ blur into a black-purple circle with a bored focus.

“Finished!” Oikawa leans back from his work and pushes the notebook under Iwaizumi’s leant elbows, smirking as the brand-new cover squeaks against the wood. “What do you think?”

“Did you have to write it that big?” he asks, examining the huge, neat writing. Iwaizumi schools his face into vigilant indifference and continues to reorganize his things. _At least his handwriting has improved_ , he thinks, remembering the same words scrawled by a seven-year-old Oikawa’s unsteady hand. There are dozens—if not _hundreds_ —of the tag littered throughout Iwaizumi’s room and things. On the front right leg of his dresser, just below the lip of his cheap-wood desk, on the faded tags of Iwaizumi’s now-stored stuffed toys, on clothes and shoes and walls, all in varying degrees of untidy. Their years together are marked by permanent and impermanent varieties of _Oikawa Tooru was here_ and Iwaizumi has long since learned to leave it alone.

( _He’ll never admit to it, of course, but when the day has been long and frustration brews oil-slick beneath his skin, or Oikawa’s eyes have cut a sinister brown side-long at him after a particularly bad row, or tiredness weighs like lead on his limbs,_ Oikawa Tooruwas here _is less of a bother and more of an assurance_.)

“Of course.” Oikawa stands from his crouch and uncaps the marker again. “Hold still,” he says, snickering, before pressing the tip to Iwaizumi’s hand. He jumps back, the marker sliding a black line across the back of his hand, and glowers. There’s one unspoken rule: Oikawa is allowed to write on anything _but_ Iwaizumi.

( _Iwaizumi’s balled fist had left dark bruises for days on Oikawa’s shoulder, which he insisted compensated for the irritated-red scratch of Iwaizumi’s forehead, where Oikawa’s name still sat in faded ink_.)

“Don’t you _dare-_ “ he starts, his temper rearing its lethal head. Oikawa laughs and jumps away from his swatting hand.

“It’s a habit,” Oikawa repeats, capping the marker.

Iwaizumi huffs, stuffs the last of his things in his bag, and contemplates the neat waves of Oikawa’s hair and the soft edges of his grin.

“Still annoying,” he repeats, but it’s defeated. He extends his hand from its place in the stiff crossed of his arms, heat crawling high on his cheeks.

The felt-press of the marker against his skin tickles enough for his fingers to involuntarily twitch. Oikawa huffs exasperatedly at the crooked-line of his writing, but Iwaizumi doesn’t mind nearly as much. He shakes his hand, watching the ink run into barbed-lines on his dry skin.

He nods at the letters, then rises from his chair. “I’m going to wash it off.”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa calls, feigning panic. Iwaizumi knows better; he can hear the underlying laughter in Oikawa’s voice and continues his march to the bathroom, rubbing at the black writing, content.  

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://suuuuga.tumblr.com/post/86879573097/oikawa-writing-oikawa-tooru-was-here-on-all-of-iwais)
> 
> lame title is lame ahaha


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